


I’ll Be the Cup if You Should Bleed

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jones has someone to watch over him, he just can’t figure out who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll Be the Cup if You Should Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [love_82’s prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/133333.html?thread=1084117#t1084117) on Comfest 2013, now going on at .
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song, “Be Mine” by REM. While this is a Neal/Jones fic, it’s unrelated to my Undeniable Chemistry series.

He’s a highly-trained FBI agent, he was supposed to notice these things. 

Granted, the signs were subtle at first. A Tide stainstick appearing in his desk drawer when he’d spilled coffee on his shirt, or a packet of Echinacea throat drops when he’d caught the latest bug going around the office. It wasn’t until the cupcake on his birthday that he began to suspect something was really up.

It was a day like any other, except he was turning the Big Three-Five, and he was feeling a bit old and his old knee injury acting up did nothing to relieve that impression. He’d steadfastly avoided mentioning the occasion to anyone at work – he didn’t want the attention, for one thing, and for another, the self-pity-party-of-one had a certain appeal to him this year. But when he moped mopingly toward his desk after a lunch hour spent running banal errands like getting his teeth cleaned, he was surprised to find a simple white bakery box sitting in the center of his desk.

Clint looked self-consciously around the office; most folks were still out at lunch, and of those that remained, no one was watching him. More importantly, no one was watching _for_ him, which meant that whoever had left whatever it was there on his desk hadn’t stuck around to witness his reaction. 

He approached the box as if it may have contained an IED and opened its lid with the point of a pen. Inside, nestled amidst some shreds of royal blue tissue paper, was a single cupcake. Red Velvet with cream cheese frosting – his favorite. What was most interesting was that it was clearly homemade, as the frosting, while piled enticingly high, hadn’t been applied with the degree of finesse a pastry chef would have used. There was no note, no birthday wishes, just the cake.

He quickly closed the lid, picked up the box, took it with him to the file room and ate it among the stacks. It was delicious.

After that, he began to notice what could only be called gifts being left for him – though they were always just practical little trinkets, like a funny cartoon the day a judge had thrown out his testimony at a pre-trial hearing, or a packet of tissues when his spring allergies started acting up. He never saw anyone leave them and, more interestingly, no one he asked about them recalled anyone leaving them either. 

One fine spring day his cell phone rang – his personal one – and he scrambled to pull it out of his pocket. _DAD CELL_ the readout said, so he answered it immediately – Clinton Jones, Sr. rarely called anyone without Clint’s mom nagging him to do it, so something important was up. “Hi, Dad,” Clint answered, trying to keep his tone light.

“Hello, Son. I’m afraid I have some bad news to deliver.” Clint’s stomach lurched; his dad had his Serious Voice on, the one reserved for deaths in the family and speaking with Pastor Brown. “Son, it’s about your Granddad –”

Clint didn’t really pay much attention to the rest – something about a heart attack – all he could think about was the fact that his favorite grandparent had died. The man who had taught him to fish, to shoot a gun, _to spit_ was suddenly gone.

He schooled his features into as passive a mask as he could – taking this call at his desk was a mistake – and made the appropriate noises to his father. He’d have to catch a train home to Baltimore for the service in two days, but in the meanwhile, he still had a major health insurance fraud investigation he was spearheading and – 

“Son, you there?”

“Yeah, Dad. Sorry, I was just – thinking ahead.” 

There was a pause at the other end before his father resumed speaking. “Your mother sure could use you down here, to help with the arrangements.”

“You mean you want me to run interference with her sisters?” Clint said wryly.

“Potato, potahto,” Clint Sr. replied.

“Sure, Dad. I’ll catch the morning train.”

After a few more seconds of back and forth, he hung up and rose from his desk. He moved to the stairs up to Peter’s office but then stopped himself. His boss was up there working quietly, so all Clint would have to do was poke his head in and ask for a few days off. But then he realized he’d have to say it – _out loud_ – making it real, making him officially a person grieving a loss, and he just couldn’t do that, not yet. Instead, he pulled on his coat and headed for the elevators – he’d sort out what to do later.

It should have surprised him to find himself on a bench on the plaza not long afterwards, sonce he wasn’t usually one to sit and brood; he sat with his elbows resting on his knees, watching his shadow when another shadow joined it, and he looked up.

“This seat taken?” Neal asked.

Even though he was sitting towards the one end, Clint still moved over, a kind of invitation. Neal laid the dry cleaning he’d been carrying over the back of the bench and joined him. Clint suddenly realized the clothes were his. “It’s been you, all this time?”

“You’ll need your best suit,” Neal said. They sat for a few minutes. “Who?” Neal finally asked.

“My grandfather.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. You loved him very much.”

Of course he did – everyone loved their grandparents, but somehow Clint knew Neal understood exactly how much. “How do you always know?” There was no need for explication; it was clear Neal had been his little guardian angel of practicality.

“You have a few tells. When you’re pissed off, you grind your teeth. When you’re sick, you hunch your shoulders a lot, like you’re trying to hide.”

“And when I’m sad?”

“You don’t look at anyone.”

“You watch everyone on the team this closely?”

“Just you.”

Clint was looking at Neal now. “Just me, huh?”

Neal's eyes on his were hesitant, almost shy, but he didn’t look away. “I like you.”

“You like me.”

“I hope you like me.”

“Do you?”

“If you don’t, it’s OK.”

“But then I won’t get cupcakes on my birthday.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Clint reached over and laid his hand on Neal's knee, felt the muscles tense and then relax. “Thank you. For looking out for me. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that makes my day.” He squeezed, once, then rose, picking up his dry cleaning. “I have to go. But when I get back, we should talk.”

Neal looked slightly disappointed, and Clint suddenly realized the other man couldn’t get a read on him now, and that it consternated him. It made him smile, a little. “Over dinner?”

Neal nodded, and smiled back, and Clint headed up to the 21st floor, where he found a new umbrella waiting on his desk – the weather forecast for Baltimore called for rain.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
